Page 10 of Is This for Real?
“Don’t you remember that I took a lot of art classes. during college?” he asks.
“No.” Parts of college, immediately after my parents died, are a blur, but I should remember Rory taking art classes. Especially because I met him several months after my parents’ death. “Did you want to be an artist? Or do you? Is that why you’re always after me to pursue my dreams?”How do I not know this about Rory? I am a terrible friend.
“No, definitely not.” Rory put his hands up, palms facing me, as if to say stop. “I’m good in advertising. It’s still the creative process, but with an income and with other people. Painting or writing would be too solitary for me. I like seeing the different ideas firing off each other. But my mom wanted to be an artist, and I feel like she’s frustrated she didn’t pursue her dream. Maybe that’s why I want you to pursue yours.”
“I can’t believe I’m just learning this.” His parents have an amazing art collection, and his mom’s an art dealer, but I didn’t realize she’d wanted to be an artist. I should be more observant as a writer, but I wouldn’t assume someone with an amazing book collection wants to be a writer.
“I’m not sure my mom would appreciate my sharing her frustration,” he says. “It’s not like you share that much. I feel like you keep your cards pretty close to your chest.”
Sometimes.I stare at the Miro painting titledConstellationand the one bright-blue star in the midst of the more somber red and black colors. The text next to it explains that it represents Miro’s escape from the terrors of World War II by his closing down within himself.Apt.“Don’t we all?” I ask.
“Not with friends. You share with Zelda.”
“Zelda has seen me at my worst, and she’s stuck with me, so I know I’ll never lose her.” I blush when I realize what I’ve said and hurriedly say, “Plus, Zelda will straight up ask me what’s going on, so I can’t keep secrets from her.” I shift from foot to foot. “I don’t think most people really want to hear it. I mean, when people ask how you are, they don’t want a real answer.”
“No, but I do. You’re not going to lose my friendship, either. We’re best friends.”
I nod. “I know.” And I need that security. I have a small inner circle of family and found-family, and I rely on them, like a circular life preserver holding me up in turbulent waves.
We pass by the guard, nodding at him, and enter another room. A woman and a man are huddled together on the bench in the middle, the man gesturing and the woman inclining her head.
He says, “I like when your dollhouse blog captures the messy moments of life, not the picture-perfect ones.”
I laugh. “You liked the recent post when she tacked the rejection to her bulletin board.”
Rory nods. “I want my next advertising campaign to be more realistic and emotionally raw. It needs to really connect with viewers.”
“He gets lost because of a detour in your current pitch. That’s realistic.”
“Yes.” Rory had successfully pitched a “romcom” ad to sell an eco-friendly car. The company’s brief was that they wanted to sell more cars to women.
“Your mom could still try. Does she?” I ask.
“Not really. She finds failure frustrating.”
Don’t we all.
We walk down a hallway and into another gallery with Miro’s paintings.
“I remember we took that surrealism art class together,” I say. We are alone in the gallery, with just the guard at the door. I step closer to the Miro painting. “I love Miro’s work. I love how playful he is. It makes me feel happy. The best part of that surrealism class was when she showed us that movie out of order, only figuring it out halfway through, and none of us realized that because it was a surrealist film.” And that I sat next to Rory every class, securely part of his inner circle.
He laughs. “That movie didn’t make any more sense when we viewed it in its proper order.”
“The film felt like a dream. Dreams seem logical when you’re dreaming, but when you wake up and try to explain what happened, they make no sense.”Our brunch date as a couple just felt like a dream.
He nods. “And the emotion that you feel in a dream is real, too. That’s why you wake up just before something bad is about to happen.”
And the emotions—being together—felt real.
He moves to the next Miro painting. “And I found advertising because of that class. I wrote my paper on surrealism in advertising.”
I remember. Sitting in Rory’s dorm room on his bed, typing up my paper as he wrote his, U2 playing in the background. When I first met Rory, I thought he might be the one who would get me over my unrequited Jamie crush. I still had feelings for Jamie, but they always seemed to fade into the background when Rory was around. But nothing ever happened. It left me wondering why we were just friends when we connected so profoundly—almost instinctively understanding the other—one creative person finding another. Or if we were just friends because we were too similar and got along so well.
The text on the plastic-plated card on the wall explains the criticism levied at Miro’s painting when it was first seen. I wish it explained what made him keep pushing on despite the criticism.Is there a time when I should give up?
“We should change the story of how we met. Especially since I don’t usually cry when I get rejections,” I say as I read the text next to a Miro painting that he painted when he had a nervous breakdown.
“I agree. So, how did we start dating?”
